


Reflection

by Arke



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, Mass Effect 3, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 03:42:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7492113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arke/pseuds/Arke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Commander Shepard is an idea, a symbol, an image – a legend bearing the weight of an entire galaxy.<br/>John Shepard is an obligation, a weakness, a flaw – a man whose sole purpose is to masquerade as the story.<br/>And Kaidan Alenko is the only man capable of removing that mask.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reflection

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that I’m considering Miranda a minor character here, hence the lack of a “Major Character Death” warning. This fic assumes that she died during the events on Horizon in Mass Effect 3. While not detailed, the death itself is briefly mentioned, so please be aware if any character death disturbs you.

The man in the mirror was a stranger.

The hard grit of his jaw, the fierce determination in his eyes, the rigid furrow of his brow – no vulnerability, no cracks in the surface, no inclination to compromise or surrender.

The man in the mirror was Commander Shepard, a story only partially true, though no one could say for certain which parts were and which were not, and the galaxy settled for truth in the word _hero_ and silenced every counterclaim.

Every time he donned that mask, he became the legend, shouldering every burden and claiming every task as though he should do nothing else, falling for his own belief that the façade was strong enough to withstand them all without disintegrating around him.

Yet, no matter how many times he changed his face, it never became familiar, never felt comfortable or fitting.  It was never enough to shield the man beneath from death and destruction, to silence his lingering doubts, or to force his foolishly human mind to surrender to its callousness; it only served to keep him bound and gagged until the mission was complete.  But even then, after every fight, he only stared at his reflection, the force of humanity’s will and strength and endurance weighing upon the already-heavy expanse of his shoulders and embedding new lines into the furrow of his brow.

And the man in the mirror, that image masquerading as the sole hero of the galaxy, would inevitably return the stare with stoic control, never allowing the simple man beneath to breach the surface.

After the events on Horizon, that man was suffocating under the mask.  Every revelation – about the true nature of Sanctuary, about the slaughter of refugees from all corners of the galaxy, about the experimentation designated for Cerberus’ benefit – was another reminder that this war was as cruel as it was unforgiving in its own brutality.  It was where Commander Shepard shined, facing the worst that the galaxy had to offer with his gun drawn and his jaw gritted.

But returning to the _Normandy_ , removing his armor, stowing his weapons, and entering the sanctuary of his own cabin was when the mask finally began to crack.  He stared down his reflection in the mirror, that statue of a man whose strength lay in feeling nothing, and gripped the edges of the sink tightly in both hands, a firm grasp that he should have managed with Miranda – it could have taken the shot, it could have pulled her back from the brink, it could have done so much more than hold a steady, emotionless finger on the trigger.

He had held her in his arms, looked down at her as she whispered her final words, remained utterly impassive as her eyes rolled back into her skull and the life dissipated from her body, and knelt there while her sister’s anguished cries rang in his ear.  Commander Shepard had done as he was designed: he bore death and doubt alike in silence, and left the man beneath to endure the burden of every missed opportunity, every wrong move, every failure, only to then ensure that the man’s screams were drowned out by that deafening silence.

Only when a rhythmic knock filtered in from beneath the washroom door did Shepard look away from the man in the mirror.  He left that hard glare behind and headed for the door to his cabin.

Meeting Kaidan’s gaze rather than his own was always like taking a breath, a deep inhale permitted only upon his break in the surface.  Every brutal mission and every difficult choice faded into the dark areas of space when he could so clearly see the light in Kaidan’s eyes.

Kaidan took a few steps into the room, waited for the door to shut behind him, and offered whatever consolation he could.  It was always a task that he willingly took upon himself: to reach out to him, to pull him back, to remove the mask that refused to be discarded at the hands of the man buried beneath the weight of its responsibility.

“It’s been rough lately,” he said.  “You doing okay?”

“Fine,” was Shepard’s only response.

Kaidan shifted on his feet, turning his head partway as he attempted to frame his next thought.

“About Horizon—”

“Doesn’t matter now, Kaidan,” Shepard interjected, silencing that thought forever.  “It’s over.”

“And Miss Lawson?”

“She got us a trace on Kai Leng and revealed Sanctuary for what it was… she died fighting.  She died breaking the grip her father always had on her throat.”

Not that Commander Shepard would have ever said so out loud, but John Shepard would remember her for who she was beneath that forceful chokehold.  Some semblance of envy – or perhaps sheer exhaustion – must have shown in his eyes, because Kaidan then stepped toward him, placed his hands on his waist, and drew him into a careful embrace, a gentle hold that was every promise he had already known.

“It’s okay,” Kaidan said, soft words breathed into the shell of Shepard’s ear.

“I know,” Shepard replied, but his voice was breaking, his heart was beating erratically, and his grip on the fabric of Kaidan’s uniform was weakening.  “I know there’s nothing more I can do about it, but—”

The hands at his waist drew together, holding him closer with such determination, and Shepard closed his eyes, letting the stubble of his cheek brush against Kaidan’s as he turned his head further toward him.

“…But will it be enough?”

He felt a breathy chuckle, a sweet sound in his ear and a rhythmic set of touches against his chest.

“There’s a lot of unknowns out there,” Kaidan said, “and yet every time you focus on the single mission, you ignore the real work being done here.  You’ve saved so many already.  You’ve done so much more than should have ever been expected of you.  You’ve given the galaxy a fighting chance.  You’ve given people hope, John.”

 _John_.

Shepard parted from him, meeting him halfway in the newly bared space between them to find his gaze and smile and everything so genuine about the man he loved.

It started with a kiss.  It always did.

The faintest brush of his lips, soft and gentle and sincere, eased the tension in his muscles until his body threatened to give way beneath him – until he was relying on another’s strength and determination and heart as his last link to his own humanity.  And his hands rose to Kaidan’s biceps as they kissed, ensuring that his grasp was as firm and stable as he could manage, never to let go of that strength and certainty and hope.

Kaidan parted from him, his eyes alight with a clear shine that said everything his lips could not.

Another step forward filled all space between them, and Shepard shuddered under the contact, the intimate closeness of their chests grazing against one another with each breath, the friction of their clothed groins pressing against each other, the steady patterns of their hands running over skin and fabric.  With nothing at his back, he braced himself in Kaidan’s steady hold.

Kaidan was always there to kiss away his doubts, to smooth out the lines in his brow and at the corners of his eyes, to hold him in a tender embrace that seized his heart and never let go – and his heart was steadily beating, surging with love the only other man in the galaxy who might ever see John Shepard.  And as they guided one another toward the bed at the other end of the room, the man came alive.

Commander Shepard was an idea, a symbol, an image.

Under Kaidan’s touch, Commander Shepard faded into a distant memory, leaving only John Shepard in its wake: imperfect, but human – tangible and genuine.  And he wanted it – needed it – with every fiber of his being, the familiar touch that brought the man to light, bridging the gap between the man and his humanity, his desires, his needs, his life.

The man beneath the armor, beneath the uniform, was the man that Kaidan loved.

Kaidan kissed him with the tender understanding that Shepard had come to rely upon, head tilting at new angles and lips moving in perfect sync against his while hands traversed his body, fingers trailing over clasps and buckles and working diligently to undo them all.  With his shirt cast aside and belt undone, Shepard released a moan into Kaidan’s mouth, savoring every fingertip’s trail along his warm skin and every gentle caress of his lips.  And when Kaidan removed his trousers and boxer-briefs, he shuddered under the sensation that hung in the air, a familiar feeling that still managed to be unknowably heavy with need every time.

Freed from his uniform, Shepard lay exposed atop the sheets, his scars and flaws and deepest vulnerabilities on display for the only man to whom he would entrust them.  Every smooth touch over the ridges of scar tissue or into the dips of healed gashes sent his nerves reeling, each part of his body willingly surrendering itself to the hands of another.

Every gentle caress, every firm grasp, every soft kiss, every rough moan – every sight and sound and scent penetrated each of his defenses with such ease, until he was writhing beneath all of them, losing himself in the throes of desire with no possibility of escape and no intention of it.

With a muffled grunt, he rose to support himself on his forearms, reaching for the clasps and fabric that remained between them and restrained every inch of heated flesh that should have been pressed against his body.  Kaidan smiled at him as their hands worked in sync to discard his uniform, until he could finally cast aside his boxer-briefs and properly hold himself above his lover, settling between his spread legs and baring every mark, sharing every breath, feeling every brush of warm skin.

And Shepard embraced all of him, bearing the heat and friction and weight in defiance of the masked man who always dismissed him as a weakness and yet never knew what strength he had.

Kaidan reached for the nightstand, his hand reappearing in Shepard’s field of vision with a bottle in its grasp, and Shepard watched the flicker in his lover’s eyes as he uncapped it with one hand and spread lubricating gel over two fingers on the other.  And Shepard drew one hand upward, fingers curling around the base of Kaidan’s skull and thumb pressing lightly against his temple, drawing his lover closer for a kiss as the first digit slowly entered him.

He gasped at the intrusion, a momentary departure of lips bringing a rush of cool air between them, and he winced with the sensation that swept over his body from his tailbone to the base of his throat, a groan lodging itself in his windpipe.  Kaidan kissed him again, taking all that Shepard would give when the moan was finally released, allowing it to drift in the heat shared between them and the softest touches of skin.  When Shepard’s head dropped back to the pillow, lips leaving Kaidan’s and eyes staring up into his with tacit approval, Kaidan swallowed hard at the sight and pressed another slickened finger inside.

The pull of muscle around Kaidan’s fingers was maddeningly tight and hot, and yet he could see Shepard shiver under every motion, the subtle twitches in his shoulders or deepening creases at the corners of his eyes with each press forward and gentle retreat back.  With a kiss to Shepard’s cheek, lips brushing against dark stubble, he pushed the two fingers further in until they were buried to the second knuckle, and whispered gentle nothings into his ear as Shepard involuntarily bucked into it, his own breaths suddenly denser with the thick desire that seeped from his lips alongside them.

But soon every alternating stroke of those fingers made Shepard’s breath hitch, so impeccably precise and controlled in the rhythm that he had come to share with Kaidan in such a short time, as though they were men made only for each other.  When Kaidan kissed him again, impossibly soft and tender, and removed his fingers, Shepard clutched his shoulder, drew him even closer, and returned it with the same passion, a gentle touch that spoke volumes through its silence.

Kaidan pulled his head back, watching through half-lidded eyes as Shepard searched his face, mouth open and still silently pleading for that contact.  He took the previously-discarded bottle, spread more lube over his free hand, and began to work it over his hard length, his eyes closing and his lips parting to release a string of short moans, each one a soft breath that wafted over Shepard’s neck with inciting warmth.  And Shepard watched until he could no longer bear the tension in the pit of his stomach.

“Kaidan—”  His words faded into a muffled moan when Kaidan kissed him.

“Yeah,” he whispered as he drew back again, that subtle shine again returning to his eyes, “I got you.”

With one hand guiding himself to Shepard’s entrance and another interlacing its fingers with one of Shepard’s hands, Kaidan pressed forward into the tight ring of muscle, resting his forehead against Shepard’s, both of them sharing a groan of pleasure and a soft mutter of discomfort.  As Shepard’s hand firmly gripped his, fingernails digging into the skin at the back of his hand, Kaidan bridged the gap and kissed him, filling every space between them until all that remained was warmth.

Kaidan parted from him to let him breathe.  “You doing okay?” he asked, each word a whisper that barely breached the sounds of panting and rustling sheets.  It was a recurring question, simple by its very nature, but one that always penetrated every remaining defense.

Shepard settled beneath him, his lips brushing against Kaidan’s on a single motion: “Yeah.”

His body shivered under the warmth shared between them in the midst of the cabin’s cool recycled air, but he was content in that conflict, in the moment where he could bare everything he had without fear that it would never be enough.

He was so much more than okay.

When Kaidan sheathed himself to the hilt, Shepard released a moan against his lips.  When Kaidan kissed him as he took Shepard’s erection in his free hand, Shepard shuddered under the touch and pressed himself into that measured grasp.  When Kaidan ran his tongue over the edge of Shepard’s upper lip, Shepard tensed until his muscles were crying out when his lips could not.

“Move, Kaidan,” he finally managed.

There was a flicker of light in Kaidan’s eyes, and again he kissed Shepard as his hips began to move, as his hand began to stroke, as his fingers twitched against Shepard’s.

Shepard was writhing beneath him, every thrust into his body filling him with some unknowable feeling that settled in the pit of his stomach.  His free hand glided across Kaidan’s side, up the expanse of his back to his shoulder blades, over the nape of his neck, and down again, smoothing over every inch of warm flesh it could reach, fingertips trailing over every intricate lattice of muscle.

He was willingly lost in the feeling.  Every flick of the wrist over his length had him releasing a low cry of pleasure.  Every measured thrust of Kaidan’s hips had his nerves reeling and his heart thrumming with a determined pace to match.  He was stretched, exposed, and vulnerable, but his strength lay in feeling everything.

With the end drawing near, every additional weight thrust upon Commander Shepard’s shoulders forced him to strengthen his chokehold, but in moments like this, the galaxy faded into the background – some endless night sky visible only through a window, where it belonged – and everything except John and Kaidan ceased to exist.

His calves pressed firmly against the backs of Kaidan’s thighs, warm skin slick with sweat and sliding over firm muscles with each thrust.  He gripped Kaidan’s hand tighter, bracing himself amidst the familiar adrenaline high, one that was under the influence of his own faculties, his own needs, his own desires, never to be claimed the same as the rush that drowned his senses on the battlefield.  Every time adrenaline coursed through his veins in this intimate closeness – in the heated embrace of two bodies brought together as one – he was invincible, timeless: held in Kaidan’s arms, pressed against Kaidan’s chest, embedded in Kaidan’s heart.

His head tipped back, exposing his neck, and Kaidan littered it with a trail of kisses that ended at the hinge of his jaw.  Shepard was panting into the open space between them, filling it with warmth and desire and tense need, and Kaidan turned his head to kiss his cheek as Shepard attempted to dislodge the words that lingered between each breath.

“Kaidan, I’m—”

A few more strokes and Shepard came, spilling himself into Kaidan’s hand and over his own abs, his neck craned toward his lover, lips locked on his, holding himself steady against that warmth.  Kaidan slowed on the remnants of Shepard’s climax, reveling in the breaths panted against his cheek and Shepard’s firm grip on his forearm, strong despite the way his body released itself from its shackles.  But every residual pulse over his erection sent sparks through his nerves, each a sharp sensation that branched out from his hips toward that tightening coil low in his gut.

He tilted his head to the side, a single word falling into Shepard’s ear.

“John…”

“Do it, Kaidan.”  But it was not an order.  It was a prayer, soft words intermixed with single breath already fraught with desire, entirely free and unrestrained and thick with meaning.

Kaidan’s hand clenched around Shepard’s, his thrusts erratic, his pulse racing, his brow beaded with sweat, and began panting through his attempt to retain some semblance of control.  Shepard reveled in every breath against the shell of his ear, each an affirmation of what he was, of what he lived for, of what he fought for – and then he turned his head and kissed Kaidan with the same determination, smiling into it as Kaidan finally shuddered and came.

Every moan against his lips, every pulse of the veins in the hand entwined so tightly with his own, and every warm stroke of skin was undeniable proof of life behind the stories, love despite the destruction, and certainty amidst the chaos.

Kaidan held himself up, sliding his forearms under Shepard’s shoulder blades, close and warm, and looked down at his lover, his lips parted slightly but smiling, his cheeks still flushed, his eyes alight with that shine that had always come alive in the tiniest spaces between two souls brought together – the residual embers of his deepest desires for the man held in his arms, the man freed from his shackles, the man whose heart could only beat with rhythmic certainty when it was beating for him.

Shepard held him tightly, an arm around his back and a hand at his temple, watching that subtle flicker of light in his eyes, still so persistent after every mission, every doubt, every devastation – and he always found something so clear, so intimate and familiar, in the contentment he saw there.

The only reflection that had ever smiled back was the man mirrored in the shine of Kaidan’s eyes.  And he was the only man that had ever mattered.


End file.
